


Hol

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest, Vague Pre-Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possibly latent (and inappropriate) desires surface under the influence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hol

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Ron’s the only one that doesn’t go with them. Ginny thinks it’s because he wants the house to himself for once, although he doesn’t look that upset when she also opts to stay behind. As soon as the door clicks, they’re off to separate rooms. The house is uncannily quiet, like it always is when everyone’s gone, particularly Fred and George. (And all their bangs and explosions they never want to set off in their own flat.) She doesn’t give much thought to what Ron’s doing in his room. In hers, she lounges on her bed and reads the latest Romilda Wartberg novella, in which a beautiful witch is seduced by a burly Muggle pirate. She promised she’d do chores, but she doesn’t. 

She’s about halfway through the seventh chapter when her stomach bothers her, several hours later. She stops by Ron’s room on the way down the hall, banging on it loudly and shouting through the wood, “I’m making dinner!”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer. If he wants some, he’ll come down. If he doesn’t: more for her.

In the kitchen, Ginny sorts through various pots and pans and cupboards, until she finally lands on left over garlic bread. She’s feeling lazily and doesn’t want to bother cooking. And Ron didn’t show up, so there’s no sense making an elaborate meal for one. She misses the Hogwarts feasts more often than not. Their mother’s an excellent cook, but there’s only so much food to go around at the Burrow, and it doesn’t simply appear without a word of complaint or bargained chores.

She’s halfway through her wand-heated garlic bread when she hears the front door open. At first, she bolts up, clutching at her skirt, where her wand would be if she were wearing jeans. But it’s only Ron. “Hey,” he grunts, carrying a large box and setting it heavily down on the kitchen table. “Went for some Firewhiskey.”

“I didn’t realize you’d gone out.” Then Ginny amends to, “What are you doing with a whole box of Firewhiskey?”

“Sale down at Mark’s,” Ron grins. “What? We’re old enough now—and everyone won’t be back for a few days—we might as well have some fun while Mum’s not looking over our shoulder.”

“We?” Ginny raises an eyebrow.

Ron shrugs. “I’m not going to drink alone and leave you with water—I’m not that sad and mean.”

Ginny rolls her eyes, but she holds out her hand anyway. She is bored, and it’s true that when their mother comes back, they won’t be having any fun, just _what are you going to do with your life now?_ questions.

With a rather large grin, Ron hands her a small bottle.

* * *

Ridiculous. “They’re obviously Inferi.” Ginny gestures vaguely at the screen before taking another swig. Their father’s rigged up a Muggle television set, and with a little help from Harry and Hermione via owls last week, he eventually got it running. They say there’re more things to watch on it—channels or something. But Ron and Ginny can’t seem to figure out how to switch it, so they’re stuck watching this particular show, in which Muggles are running from Inferi.

“The Muggles call them zombies,” Ron explains, sounding more than a little tipsy. “’S in Martin Miggs—y’know, the comic books.” He’s next to her on the couch, with his arm slung over the back of it.

After another drink, Ginny leans back into it. Then she realizes her bones are still sore, and she readjusts, resting her head on his shoulder. They’ve got all the lights off to set the ambiance of the movie, but it isn’t as scary as the preamble promised. Probably because the Inferi in the movie are moving painfully slowly, and the Muggles in the film clearly have access to fire, but for some reason, aren’t using it. Perhaps they don’t know. 

“Muggles are silly,” Ginny slurs. She goes in for another sip but realizes her bottle’s empty. Ron takes it out of her hands and tosses it onto the pile with a clink, pulling out another full one from the box at his feet. It’s got more in it than she initially realized. Magiced to fit. (All the strong stuff.)

But there isn’t any point stopping—she’s still thirsty. She hiccups and takes it. She puts it in her lap afterwards and leans her head back on Ron’s shoulder. It’s broader than it used to be, just like he’s taller, his arms longer. He smells better, too, but that’s probably cologne. Ginny tilts her face into his neck and sniffs to double check. Definitely cologne. His fingers dip down to her shoulder, stroking it soothingly. 

Then an Inferius suddenly pops up on the screen, and Ginny screams mostly from surprise. Ron wraps his arm around her tighter, chuckling, “It’s not real.”

“I know,” she mumbles. “Just startled me.” The Inferius on the screen is eating the Muggle woman it attacked, and Ginny winces and scrunches her face up at all the blood and gore. She’s not particularly squeamish, but it’s particularly disgusting.

Ron’s calloused fingers slip over her eyes, and he says, “Maybe you... shouldn’t see this part, _little sis_.”

Pouting, Ginny swats his hand away. “’M not a baby.”

Ron tilts his head back on the couch. Then he says, “Want popcorn.” And he puts his Firewhiskey on the table, standing up.

* * *

The show’s still going. It’s gotten a lot worse. Blood and guts everywhere, and now the Muggles are in hiding inside old, dilapidated buildings. They’ve tried fire, and it didn’t work. Ginny’s curled tight into Ron’s side. Every scene in the movie is dark, and Ginny can’t even see her living room floor by it. She can _feel_ where Ron is, though; he’s warm.

The Firewhiskey burns. Since Ginny’s practically in Ron’s lap, with her legs draped over his and her skirt ridden up, the popcorn bowl’s sitting on her lap. Ron’s got their bottles in one hand, and his other arm around Ginny’s shoulders, ready to shield her eyes any time. Sometimes she gets war flashbacks, but not often. Because the Muggles are sneaking through the building and it’s a dark, moody scene, Ron whispers when he asks, “Popcorn?”

Without looking, Ginny holds up a cluster of it. Ron leans forward and bites it right out of her hand—she feels his tongue swipe over her palm. By the time she looks over, he’s licking the butter off her skin. For some reason, she doesn’t pull her hand away.

The alcohol’s making her head fuzzy.

Her thighs are warm—she fidgets. She’s warm... down there.

He puts the bottles down. He holds her wrist. He licks right up her middle finger and pops it into his mouth, though she’s sure all the butter’s gone. 

He tugs her forward by the wrist. Ginny doesn’t know what comes over her. Her stomach is fluttering, pulse raising, blood screaming, ‘yes,’ and her head’s too foggy to contribute. She tilts her head slightly; he tilts his. Her eyes close, lips open. 

His tongue slips into her mouth, warm and wet.

* * *

She can’t remember if the show’s over. They turned the television off. She drank too much. 

Ron’s kissing her against her door. No, his door. They’re banging into things, and the doorknob hits her in the side, but she keeps going. His hands are all over her, tugging at her hair and scrunching up her shirt, tracing around her waist, raising, lowering, everywhere they shouldn’t be—his fingers are so long and _warm_. Heat, heat, heat, like the fire the Muggles should’ve used to kill the Inferi.

Ron’s room is a mess. They’re stumbling over shit on the floor. Clothes and books and things. Ron’s _such_ a good kisser. Why didn’t anyone ever tell her that? Why doesn’t he have more women? He’s strong, and he’s powerful, and he holds her tight, every time she almost trips on the debris around them. They make their way to the bed, and he tosses her onto it like a caveman, standing over her with the look of an animal.

Ginny’s breathing so hard. Her chest is rising and falling so much that her sleeves have slipped down her shoulders. Her hair’s a mess. Legs apart. She looks up at him. There’s a part of her that _knows this is wrong._

The rest of her sees a feral man, sexy as fuck with his hair tousled and the beginnings of a six pack peeking out from under his rumpled shirt. It’s almost hard to recognize him. When did her little brother get such a deep voice and turn so rugged, start killing monsters and agents of a dark wizard, do all this and come back to her every summer, like nothing’s changed? His pupils are blown wide in his blue eyes, fingers clenching slightly. 

He half-growls, half-slurs, “I want you.”

Ginny arches her chest up. Her red hair tumbles off her shoulders, breasts straining against her shirt, nipples already pebbling from all the contact. She’s clutching at the blankets, because he’s too far away too hold. 

Is he waiting for permission? Everything sounds like a good idea right now. She starts to push down the hem of her skirt—she’s proud of how she looks, and he should see it. It’s easy to trap boys with her body—can she trap him too? A man with a mouth like that... why should she ever let him go? They’ve always had a connection, anyway, even if sometimes they forget. They’re the youngest in a herd, always left the hand-me-downs and left behind, the only ones at home when everyone else went to Hogwarts. Then went away. Is this why he’s always so mad when she’s with other boys? She giggles aloud. Maybe he’s _jealous._

He’s crawling back on top of her. Sweeping he hair aside, one knee between her thighs, fingers helping to tug down her skirt, fingers sliding all over. He touches her where he shouldn’t and she gasps, begging the air. The gasp turns into a moan quickly. 

He’s good with his fingers. And tongue. He’s marking her neck. She’s biting his. Tugging his short hair between her knuckles, brushing it and trying to pull his shirt off, see all his muscles. He’s grinding into her, and oh, _she can feel it. Hard and huge._ The air already smells of sex.

He’s got his hands under her shirt, kneading her breasts, squeezing them expertly, drunken fumbling, all at once. He’s so eager. So all over her. His finger presses at her entrance, and she breathes, “ _Ron._ ”

* * *

The light hits her eyes and she murmurs, “Oh, Merlin...”

Her head’s pounding. She rolls over and reaches for her duvet, but it isn’t there. She wants to curl back up in bed, but she also wants to run to the bathroom and vomit. It feels like a train’s running through her room or her head. She regrets every bottle. (How many were there?)

Ginny groans and rubs at her eyes, wondering why her curtains are open—she always closes them before bed. Stiffly, she pushes herself up onto her elbows, ready to reach over and shut them.

Except they’re on the other side of the room from where they should be, and they’re not her curtains at all. It’s not even her room. A sleepy grunt makes her look down, and she almost falls out of bed. Ron’s lying next to her, on his stomach. His arm’s thrown over her lap. She has no idea how she missed that. He isn’t wearing a shirt. She is, but her bra’s gone. She doesn’t want to lift up the blankets, because she’s afraid of what is (or isn’t) there.

“What happened last night?” Her voice comes out raspy. She drops her head into her hands, partially because the light is bothering her. 

Then she slips out of bed and finds her bra and underwear, lying on the floor. She throws the pillow she used on the floor and straightens out the blankets, as though she was never there. 

She wanders out towards the bathroom, rubbing her forehead. Halfway to the bathroom, she freezes—there’s sound downstairs. The rest of the family? They shouldn’t be back yet. 

The Muggle television. They forgot to turn it off. She remembers and breathes a sigh of relief and keeps walking. 

She sets the shower to burning hot. She feels sticky and sick. And confused as fuck. Her head’s not in any shape to deal with this. She doesn’t even remember everything that happened. Maybe Ron does. Ron. Her _brother._

There’s a soft knock on the bathroom door, and Ron mumbles through it, “...We need to talk.”


End file.
